Midnight in Arkham Asylum
by Vytina
Summary: Midnight in Arkham Asylum: when the real insanity comes to light...in darkness.


**A/N: A little short piece that came to me a few months ago, and I've been working on it ever since. This is my thoughts on what happens at midnight in Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. I think I got about everyone in here, but for those of you who will point out that I didn't include the Joker...my thoughts are he's either never in the asylum because he's out wrecking havoc in Gotham, or he's in solitary confinement, or he's doing something that I wouldn't even be able to think of. Now that I've said that, please don't leave a review complaining about how I didn't include Joker. Other than that, please review and leave your thoughts!**

**Title: Midnight in Arkham Asylum**

**Summary: Midnight in Arkham Asylum: when the real insanity comes to light...in darkness.**

**Pairings: hinted CranexOC**

* * *

Midnight in Arkham Asylum

Midnight in Arkham Asylum: by definition, it was the only time of the night when the guards were relaxed and calm, perhaps too much so. But they had no reason to be terribly worried at this time. You see, evenings in Arkham had a schedule—one which every guard knew and the rookies learned quite quickly. Dinner was at six o'clock. One hour later, at seven, the inmates were escorted to various places. The "Common", as the less serious inmates were referred to by the guards, were taken to library time, therapy, or perhaps a brief half hour of exercise. The Rouge Gallery, on the other hand, were taken to the recreation room, where they spent the next hour, maybe an hour and a half, if they had been on their best behavior that week.

Eight o'clock, all inmates were taken back to their cells. The Common were of little concern to the guards. They were the ones who were responsible for less than 2% of the escape attempts. The other 98% of escape attempts, however…well, that credit belonged to the Rouge Gallery. They were kept in an entirely separate ward in Arkham, and that was where the guards devoted most of their attention and stationed the majority of their man power.

Every member of the Rouge Gallery had their own evening routine. While nothing was truly threatening…one could never, _ever_ be too careful. The guards always stayed on their toes, making sure no sign of impeding relaxation strayed into their features. The Rouges could smell weakness, and they would pounce on the smallest opportunity…even if they rarely looked like it at this time.

* * *

Harvey Dent was hardly one to be concerned with at this hour. He sat upon the edge of his bed, back straight and uniform—no doubt an old habit from his days as District Attorney. In his left hand, he constantly flipped that infamous coin. An oddly melodic pattern of sounds echoed from his cell: the soft whistle of the coin twirling through the air; the quiet slap of metal landing in his waiting palm; the whisper of thumb and index returning the coin to its proper location…all a steady, unending rhythm that continued well throughout the night, until around 11:45 or so, when he finally settled down upon the cot. He rarely used the covers. Some of the guards argued that he simply did not get cold easily, but several of the doctors profiled that either Harvey Dent or Two-Face did not appreciate the stifling sensation of being covered with anything. Perhaps one of them, or both, was a claustrophobic. When the guards were foolish enough to ask the doctors of Arkham to resolve these questions, they were either rebuked or dismissed.

It was an ongoing debate, one that would probably never have a resolution.

* * *

To the right of Dent's cell was Arnold Wesker. The ventriloquist could often be seen sitting up, resting against the brick wall of the cell with his puppet seated in his lap. Every night, there was a new book in his hands—a bedtime story for Scarface. Occasionally, if the mobster puppet requested (aka demanded) the same story again, one might see an old title propped up in Wesker's hands, but Scarface was one for variety. The only genre that never seemed to be present amongst the varied books was any sort of child's book. Scarface was known to appreciate any sort of action adventure, a murder mystery now and then, and of course, he was never one to turn down any sort of documentary on the great criminal minds of the past. These stories had to be read aloud, of course, and often one could hear Arnold stutter with shame and obvious embarrassment over some of the details in the story. He would be harshly reprimanded by Scarface, sometimes even physically so, and then the story would continue. Typically, the puppet wanted to be read the entire story, and Wesker would be once again chastised if he appeared tired or suggested turning in for the evening. No such behavior was tolerated by the crime boss; the entire story, beginning to end, would be read before Arnold could finally get some sleep. The only exception was a rare one, and that only came if Scarface was, for whatever reason, tired and either didn't want the bedtime story, or he was content to settle for a few chapters. After the story was finished, Scarface was rested upon the bed, carefully covered with the blankets, unless he protested that he was far too hot for the covers. Of course it was never a guarantee whether or not the covers would remain off or on for the entire night, as Scarface was known to wake Wesker up (loudly and at all unholy hours of the night), telling him that he was cold or hot, and of course the ventriloquist had no choice but to comply and remain awake until Scarface was satisfied. After he was finally content and asleep, then Arnold finally turned in for the night. It was a long process, and one that most of the guards found hilarious—that a man would place a puppet's needs before his own. Such humor was not shared by any of the Rouges.

* * *

The next two cells beside Wesker's were empty; at the right end of that gap was Waylon Morgan. The former wrestler had a very simple routine, just like Dent. One would observe him doing nothing but exercise continuously for two to three hours. But there was a pattern to the aerobics. First were pushups and sit-ups. He would do sit-ups first, anywhere from between fifty and sixty. Impressive as that was, the number of pushups ranged from between 100 to 150, all done in rapid succession without any pause or hesitation. This was an art that he had long since perfected, and although the amount of pushups he did wasn't entirely surprising, seeing as his upper body strength was frighteningly impressive, watching him was nonetheless awe-inspiring. After that, he would do a variation of bench presses….with his bed. He'd lie on his back and lift the bed frame up in the air, and would continue to do so for about an hour or so. The first time a guard had noticed him doing that, panic had been raised and six guards flocked to the cell immediately, waiting for the breakout to occur. The shock that had finally registered in their minds when they realized he was just exercising had been the source of hours of laughter amongst the Rouges the following week.

* * *

Beside Morgan's cell was Edward Nygma. He could be seen sitting upright on his bed, not unlike Dent, with his knees propped up to create a makeshift desk for the crossword puzzle he'd taken from the evening paper. The Riddler was awarded these simple privileges—the newspaper, a pen and pencil. The guards occasionally wondered at his particularity when completing the puzzles: a pencil was used for crosswords, but a ballpoint pen was his preferred tool when filling out the Sudoku puzzles in the weekend editions. There were plenty of theories circulating through the security guards as to this odd choice, and they would have been utterly embarrassed to know they were simply over thinking the whole situation. In reality, this preference merely stemmed from using whatever had been convenient when he first began working on those puzzles years ago, and old habits did die hard, but he preferred to allow the guards to gossip over what secret method was to such behavior.

He worked on the puzzle until it was completed—he never went to bed unless they were filled out. After that, he would stretch a bit (nothing extreme or particularly organized) to flex the cramped muscles, and then it was off to bed. Although, many speculated he never actually fell asleep when his head met the pillow. In fact, some wondered if he was an insomniac, or if he just didn't sleep until a few hours after the lights went out. At any rate, it was no unknown fact that Nygma never fell asleep immediately. Several guards passing his cell had witnessed, and continued to witness, his lips moving, barely visible in the darkness, as though counting the bricks in the ceiling, or reciting some facts that would boggle the guards' minds if they heard them.

* * *

After passing by the Riddle Master, one came to the cell of Pamela Isley. Her routine was hardly surprising, considering it was devotion to the plants that surrounded her cell, turning it into more of a small greenhouse than a prison cell. Of course, the guards neither knew nor cared to know the various names of the plants. All they cared about was that Pamela Isley was not concocting any new poison with which she might secure a new breakout. Yet there were a few doctors who took interest in Isley's routine, particularly Dr. Joan Leland. She had been known to sit outside the botanist's cell during the night; she would not speak to her, just watched in calm silence, observing without taking notes. There was a certain calming meditation to the way Isley tended to her plants. Pruning them carefully, removing any dry, dying leaves or branches so the plants would be at their absolute best. This was not for show, of course. Isley cared little for what guards or doctors thought of her plants. They all possessed absolutely no respect for Nature, she stated, therefore she would expect no awe from them when they observed her plants' beauty and splendor. Her care and attention was purely maternal. Any mother who wanted the best for her child made sure they always looked their best, and any injuries were immediately tended to and rest was not taken until the child was fully bandaged and on their way to a quick recovery. Such was the treatment that her plants received. Nothing was withheld if they needed it. Leland had observed on more than one occasion Pamela taking the usual evening glass of water, something all the patients were granted before curfew was enforced, and using it to feed her "babies". As obsessive and unhealthy as such devotion might be, there was a point when even the most insane love of plants could be poetic and calming to observe.

* * *

Beside Isley was Harleen Quinnzell. This one was an inmate who rarely had a rhyme or reason to her bedtime routine. Some nights she promptly dropped down and dozed off; other nights she was up for hours doing a variety of things—stretching, toying with her dolls, reading a "borrowed" magazine from the library…all while humming and singing to herself. There was a childlike fondness to her routine that even the guards couldn't suppress a smile at, especially those who were parents themselves. It was hard to remember that this woman was not only in her early twenties, but also certifiably insane and psychotic. But then again, how could one remember such a fact when she was seen lying upside down on her bed, blowing large bubbles with her gum, toying with a harlequin doll, and singing children's nursery rhymes to herself? And even when she promptly went to bed, she slept curled up in a ball under the covers, with only her eyes and nose visible above the hem of the sheets. That image was quite reminiscent of a sleeping puppy, and often the guards gave a fond chuckle when observing her in such a position. She was also the only inmate who would make noises in her sleep. Nothing definitive or entirely coherent; mostly she would just give occasional murmurs or sighs…and of course, the always amusing squeak.

* * *

Beside Quinnzell lay Jervis Tetch. He was definitely one of the more reserved and quiet inmates, especially at night. He would sit up in his bed; legs folded or crossed, and read his book. Every guard, even the rookies, knew that Tetch had read _Alice in Wonderland_ hundreds of times, but somehow he never failed to find it boring or tiresome. He would easily read for an hour or two, and to watch him read was the occasional pastime of many guards. Normally, he would merely sit there and read, eyes drifting idly across the pages, lips unmoving. However, every night without fail, there came a page, or perhaps a picture in the book, where he would pause. His demeanor changed entirely; instead of a quiet and collected reader, he became slightly hunched, slumped against the wall. The calmness on his face faded to a soft wrinkle between the brow; sometimes the lines on his face would become far more defined, making him appear far older than he was. His eyes, which previously had held no emotion, now were filled with a nostalgic sadness and remorse. There was great debate amongst the guards and orderlies as to what prompted such a transformation in the Hatter. Many said that he was looking at a drawing of Alice, and he was remembering his lost love. Others said he was looking an image of the storybook Mad Hatter, and was suddenly filled with a great regret for choosing this path in life. Some of the hardened guards, ones who possessed absolutely no empathy in them for the Rouges, or any of the inmates for that matter, dismissed the debate with a harsh scoff. They said such a transformation was impossible in a person like Jervis Tetch. The debate continued, and like many debates of which the Rouges were the subject, there was not likely to be a resolution to it.

* * *

Across from Tetch was the cell of Professor Jonathan Crane. Every newcomer guard to Arkham Asylum made their way to this cell, even if it was far from their designated patrol area. Every rookie wanted to see how the infamous Master of Fear spent his nights. All walked away after their first time, disappointed entirely. He only held his Scarecrow demeanor outside the walls of Arkham, it seemed. Inside, his persona as a professor of psychology took over entirely. He sat up in bed, his gangly legs stretched out before him on the bed that was barely long enough to hold his entire figure. Sometimes, he would be in the company of a book—_Abnormal Psychology_ and _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_ were the favorites. Other times, he would simply be sitting on his bed, long hands folded quietly over his stomach, eyes closed in silent meditation.

Now, the source of the rookies' disappointment rested in the fact that they only came to view (rather gawk) at him between the hours of ten o'clock and midnight. After midnight, however, everything changed entirely with the professor of fear. His body position would not necessarily change, but his demeanor would. Even with eyes closed, he seemed to be lying in wait of something…his internal clock set to a certain time, and so his body was gathering and storing energy for that particular event. One of the privileges that Professor Crane possessed was a small bedside lamp and table. The lamp remained on until 12:30 AM. By rules, that was prohibited, but there were very few guards who would actually dare to enter the Scarecrow's cell. None of them were on duty during these night hours, so the lamp remained on. However, every night, without fail, the professor would reach over and silently twist the knob on the lamp base, flooding his cell in darkness. Before the lights dimmed entirely, one could glimpse the satisfied smirk on his face.

* * *

The source of Professor Crane's satisfaction and pleasure—twisted as it might be—lay in the cell directly next to his. Iris DeLaine…the newest inmate of Arkham Asylum and youngest member of the Rouge Gallery. Words alone could never hope to describe the sixteen year old. She was the only "member" of the Rouge Gallery who most certainly didn't belong there. It was rare enough that she was institutionalized to begin with, but she was not among the "Common". From the moment she stepped into Arkham, the Rouges had drawn her in, wrapping their arms around her before she could ever have considered drifting to the lesser criminals of the asylum. And there was no threat or persuasion that had been involved to make her come so easily to the Rouges. As far as any, doctors and guards alike, could tell…Iris belonged there and felt at ease amongst Gotham's notorious criminals.

The guards eagerly awaited the evening hours, when the girl's normally fiery and stubborn attitude quieted to a civilized manner. Of course, she had her moments when she was calm and collected, but those were a rarity, and they only occurred in the presence of her former professor, Jonathan Crane.

DeLaine was, not unlike her professor, a quiet inmate in the night hours. For all her fiery protest and hotheaded attitude during the day, she became a collected and quiet creature in darkness. She would stretch for an hour or so once she was returned to her cell, demonstrating her absurd flexibility with every move she made. After stretching, she typically stretched out across her cot, her feet rested up at the head of the mattress, against the brick; her torso propped up at the opposite end on her elbows, holding a book in her hand. Sometimes the book might be a psychology textbook, but usually her preferred choice was _The Completed Works of Edgar Allen Poe_. She would read until after midnight, and then her candles (her choice of light source, rather than a lamp) were extinguished.

What happened between midnight and the hour when dawn broke the darkness of the asylum was, and would always be, anyone's guess.

* * *

Midnight in Arkham Asylum: the time when all was quiet, all was at peace. Many presumed and labeled those nightly hours to be the time when no complexities or curious behavior occurred amongst the Rouge Gallery of the asylum. They called it a time when the only need to be wary was of any inmate who was suddenly filled with the urge to free themselves of the asylum's claustrophobic confines and make a dash for the freedoms and endless opportunities of the unsuspecting world outside.

And yet, perhaps in these few quiet hours…there was more occurring in the dark silence than the guards or doctors ever suspected.

Perhaps midnight in Arkham was when the real insanity came to light.

It simply remained anonymous in the dark.


End file.
